Death Dance (26 page)

They hurried out to the car park and drove to Oldfield’s place of work.

He was there, large as life and twice as sure of himself. As though to exhibit how little concern he felt for their latest visit, he ran careless fingers through his springy, dark brown curls. It irritated Rafferty as much now as it had the first time he’d met him.

‘This really is becoming a bad habit, Inspector. So what can I do for you this time?’ he asked.

‘It’s more a case of what
I
can do for you,’ Rafferty told him. ‘I can arrest you for the murder of Adrienne Staveley.’ He gave the shocked and no longer so cocky, Oldfield the statutory caution and escorted him to the car.

The circumstantial evidence against Oldfield was stacking up nicely. He’d lied to them not once, not twice, but three times. He’d been having an affair with Adrienne, who had started to become demanding. And he had stood to lose his wealthy girlfriend if Adrienne had taken the natural next step to break the couple up by telling Diana Rexton about the affair. He couldn’t be sure that his girlfriend would accept his infidelity. For all he knew Diana Rexton would rediscover her lost pride and leave him, taking his dreams of wealth and an easy life with her.

Taken together, they formed a pretty conclusive motive that formed a solid case against him. But even when it was all laid out before him, Oldfield seemed unimpressed and retained his cocky air. He not only continued to deny that he’d killed Adrienne. He even denied taking one of the cars from the lot, which was a pointless denial seeing as the car had been captured on CCTV.

‘I left the flat once around the time of the murder,’ he continued to insist. ‘And that’s all. Whoever’s told you different is a liar with an axe to grind.’

‘One of your customers, perhaps,’ Rafferty said. ‘I’ve heard there has been one or two with reasons for complaint.’

Oldfield looked torn between agreeing with this statement and denying it on the grounds that his customers had nothing to complain about.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he insisted mulishly for the second time, when they questioned him again after seeing if a spell in the cells would work its occasional magic. ‘Okay, I admit that Adrienne was pushing for us to live together. That was never going to happen, as I told her. I didn’t want to lose Diana. I love her.’

‘Love her money, more like,’ said Rafferty.

‘I know she has money. What do you think I am, stupid? Why do you think I joined the tennis club, but to hook myself a rich bird? Most were stuck-up bitches, too pretty and spoilt to waste their charms on me. But Diana is plain and homely, I thought she’d be grateful for my attentions and she was. She still is,’ he grinned, not at all abashed by his sojourn in the cells.

‘Come on, Gary,’ Rafferty said. ‘You were scared to get you to do what she wanted, Adrienne would tell Diana about your affair. Why won’t you admit it?’

‘Because it isn’t true. Even if Adrienne had told Diana of our affair, she’d have forgiven me. She’s a very forgiving sort, Diana, as is proved by the fact that she
did
know of my affair and only left me for a day or two. Anyway, this is all very interesting, but not very accurate. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t have time, as you’d realise if you weren’t so keen on fitting me up. And, for what I hope will be the final time, for the record, I deny that I was out, driving one of my boss’s cars around five-thirty. I was back at the flat with Diana long before that.’

‘Unfortunately, your girlfriend says she was in the bath having a long soak. You could have slipped out and gone anywhere.’

‘Well I didn’t and you can’t prove that I did. You say you’ve got a witness. Well, he’s wrong. And if that’s all the evidence you’ve got, it’s his word against mine.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But I mightn’t need his evidence. With the right jury I’ll get a conviction on the circumstantial evidence alone.’

But stubbornly, Oldfield still continued to repeat his innocence and Rafferty knew he had no choice but to leave it to the courts. He had a strong case, and with the right judge who gave the desired direction to the jury, he’d win his case. But maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe, between now and the trial Oldfield would decide on a guilty plea. Especially if they dropped the case to manslaughter.

But murder or manslaughter, he was going away.

Rafferty thought it likely that if he did decide to plead guilty, Oldfield would claim that the murder had been an accident, an unpremeditated and accidental killing. Though if that were the case, it didn’t explain why Oldfield had felt it necessary to drive a car other than his own to see Adrienne.

Rafferty felt a quiet satisfaction. He also felt relieved because he could now go on honeymoon with a clear conscience. He couldn’t wait to ring Abra and tell her.

Chapter Eighteen

But, before he rang Abra to let her know the honeymoon was back on, Rafferty wanted to get Oldfield’s statement typed up and signed. This was one he didn’t mind doing himself, in spite of his two-fingered typing skills and creative spelling. And after that, he intended to again question Oldfield about his decision to use one of the cars from the used car lot when he’d visited Adrienne. He was convinced he could make him break down and admit it.

If the visit had been as innocent of evil intentions as he’d tried to convince them, why had he felt the need to borrow a car from the yard? This was the stumbling block to Oldfield’s protestations of innocence. Rafferty guessed their suspect would concoct some cock and bull story about his car not starting. It might get the charge down to manslaughter. But murder or manslaughter, Oldfield was going away. And now, so were Rafferty and Abra. His destination – prison. Theirs, the south of France, and a satisfied smile curled around his lips. ‘A mug of celebratory tea is called for, Dafyd. My shout.’

But when he went down to the ground floor, he spied Diana Rexton in reception through the porthole on the door and his celebratory tea had to be postponed. He knew Oldfield had rung her, presumably to ask her to find some hotshot lawyer to get him out from under.

Rafferty pushed through the door to reception, called her name and told her she might as well go home. Gary wouldn’t be leaving the cells — apart from when he made his trip to Court in the morning.

‘Can I see him?’ she asked.

Rafferty felt sorry for her. He could see, from her red-rimmed eyes, that she’d been crying. He felt bad when he told her, ‘I’m afraid not. We’ve settled him down for the night. He can’t see anyone but his brief.’

She gazed at him, woebegone. More tears threated, but they didn’t fall. Perhaps Diana Rexton was made of sterner stuff than he’d previously thought. ‘Even so, I think I’ll stay. I feel closer to him here. He didn’t do it, you know. You’ll find out soon and have to let him go.’

Rafferty shrugged and left her to her lonely vigil. He took his car keys from his pocket, went out to the car park and drove home.

Abra was jubilant. ‘Who’s the clever copper, then?’ she asked as she danced them around the living room. ‘
My
clever copper.’

It was late, Rafferty longed to take her out to dinner to celebrate, but he didn’t think he’d find anywhere prepared to feed them; most restaurants wouldn’t take orders after nine o’clock. Then he remembered the Italian restaurant they had gone to when he asked her to marry him. The owner, a mock Italian called Senor Fabio, but really Fred Ollins from Ongar, might let them in and feed them. With a suitable bribe. He quickly checked the number on his mobile and rang him, ready to plead. But it wasn’t necessary. It was mid-week and Ollins was presumably glad of the custom, especially as it came at a more exorbitant price than his previous arrangement.

But Rafferty didn’t care about the price. For once, costs didn’t concern him. He’d happily pay whatever the outrageous Ollins demanded. He’d even call him Senor Fabio.

They didn’t bother getting changed, but, after a quick wash and spruce up, just went out as they were, to save time.

It was a tipsy evening, full of reminiscences and Abra’s compliments on the fact that Rafferty had solved the murder at the eleventh hour.

‘Who’s a clever policeman, then?’ she asked sloppily, drunk on Chardonnay and happiness.

‘
I
am,’ said Rafferty, with a tipsy grin, full of Jameson’s and victory and the secret pleasure that, whether she liked it or not, he had saved Diana Rexton from the avaricious Oldfield.

They didn’t bother with a taxi, but walked home, hand in hand, and talked of their dreams for the future, their hoped-for new home and their wedding day. After making love, they fell asleep in each others’ arms.

Rafferty jerked up from his pillows and stared into the dark bedroom. The dream had been so vivid; he found it hard to recognise reality. His guts stirred uneasily. Because the dream had been all about the investigation. He’d dreamt that he’d put an innocent person away. Gary Oldfield! Innocent! he scoffed to himself.

He checked the clock radio. It was three in the morning. He groaned. Not again. His head throbbed and he felt a bit queasy. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. He thought he’d had enough alcohol to keep him in anaesthetised sleep till morning. But now he was wide awake. Worse, he had a niggle. A niggle of doubt about Oldfield’s guilt. It was a niggle he didn’t want and he tried to force it from his mind. But it wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just a dream, then, he thought with the philosophical acceptance of one of Llewellyn’s ancient Greeks.

Oldfield had continued to deny any guilt in the murder of Adrienne Staveley right up to the time the cell door was clammed in his face. The trouble was, Rafferty was starting to believe him.

But surely it couldn’t be true? There was too much coincidental evidence stacked against him. Everything pointed to him. The car was a vehicle from his car lot. He had the only keys to open the key cabinet. He was Adrienne’s lover and she’d been pressing him to set up home with her which was the last thing Oldfield would want with his little rich girl partner whom he had expectations of marrying.

But a Vauxhall Vectra. Would Oldfield really choose to drive such a car when he had a whole yard-full of vehicles? All right, he’d want to keep a low profile if he was going out with murder on his mind, but Rafferty thought that, given the nature of the man, he would still choose a car with a bit more oomph to it. His own car was an old-style Jaguar.

There must be a logical explanation for the way he was feeling; he’d felt this way before, during previous investigations and it had never let him down.

He leant back against his pillows and listened to the soft breathing of Abra lying beside him. Gary Oldfield was guilty as Hell. Why he’d— Rafferty stopped mid-thought, shocked as he recalled something disturbing that destroyed his confident conclusion to the case.

It was something that had been said to him earlier in the investigation, he was sure. But what was it? His dream was already fading, taking the certainty with it. He cudgelled his brain as he tried to recapture its essence. He closed his eyes and shut out everything but his thoughts. He drifted and let his mind wander.

But that couldn’t be right, he thought as he sat up again. Oldfield’s the killer. Everything points to him. All the evidence says so.

It was then that he remembered Llewellyn and his frequent advice not to run ahead of the evidence. Was that what he’d done here? He’d been so obsessed with getting a case against Oldfield that he now realised he’d given too little thought to another person who had ample reason to murder Adrienne. He thought it through. How on earth had he missed it? How had Llewellyn missed it? Rafferty shook his head, wondering if his certainty partway through the investigation had succeeded in blinding Llewellyn also.

Restlessness drove him from the bed. His uneasy mind wouldn’t give his body any peace either. He didn’t want to wake Abra with his fidgeting. He went along to the kitchen to make tea. He brought it into the living room. He sipped and thought, sipped and thought. And finally, he had it. It made sense. Everything made sense, even the choice of car.

He would have to go back to the station. He’d had too much to drink to drive; the alcohol was sure to be in his system. He didn’t want to risk a ban just before their honeymoon. But, instead of ringing for a taxi, he decided to walk. He walked to the front door, pulled it open, stuck his head out and sniffed. It was a nice night, soft and balmy, with the merest hint of dampness in the air. If he was right he’d be back long before Abra woke, but he’d leave her a note, just in case.

He came back into the bedroom and got dressed in the clothes he’d discarded so hastily hours earlier. He needed to get to the station. The proof he required was there.

Rafferty went into reception. Diana Rexton was still there. She had been crying again, he saw. Her eyes and nose were red and made her plain face plainer than ever.

The sight of her made him feel guilty and he hurried past her and through the security door.

He watched the CCTV footage for the second time and had his suspicions confirmed. Before, he had been so concentrated on finding the right registration number amongst the myriad of vehicles on the roads around the Staveleys’ house during the two-hour period that Sam Dally had said the murder had taken place, that when he had found it he had seized on it and looked no further. But this time he did. And he saw what he expected to see.

Diana Rexton looked up when he appeared and said, ‘Inspector Rafferty. I’ve been waiting for you.’

He walked up to her and said, ‘It was you, wasn’t it? It was you who killed Adrienne Staveley. It has to be. You weren’t in the bath at all, were you? No wonder I believed you when you said Oldfield was at the flat all afternoon and evening. You were telling the truth. It shone from you. You really thought he was there and he was, apart from when he popped out for a takeaway. But you weren’t. When did you take his keys? That evening? Or did you steal them earlier in the week and get copies made?’